


Lightness & the Call that's Hard to Hear

by madredelvino



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-07-11 13:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madredelvino/pseuds/madredelvino
Summary: Andy Sachs has spent 1095 days in a relationship she doesn't want to be in, because of a secret she can't admit even to herself.Can a chance encounter, a near death experience, and a life-altering reunion finally set her on the path to a future behind the closet door?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the recognisable characters or places in this work - in the grand tradition of fanfiction, I'm just borrowing them. 
> 
> Title is a reference, of course, to the Indigo Girls song - Closer to Fine (...lol)
> 
> Haven't written in awhile and don't have a beta so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Feel free to point out anything glaring, but don't be a rat about the minor stuff just for the sake of it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

# Chapter One

 _I did not love women as I do now._  
_I loved them with my eyes closed, my back turned._  
_I loved them silent, & startled, & shy._  
\- Julie Marie Wade

**December**

The snow was falling in earnest as Andy took the decisive first step out of the front door of her apartment building. She did not look back as it shut behind her with a muted click. 

The temperature was immediately arresting, and feeling the burn of the cold wind on her exposed skin, she pulled the collar of her heavy coat around her ears and tugged her scarf up to cover her nose and mouth.Testing her grip on the icy sidewalk, she realised blankly that Converse hadn’t been the best choice of footwear, but without much effort she put this thought out of her already busy mind and quickly began to walk. 

It occurred to her that at 11pm on Christmas day it hardly mattered even if she did slip over - a prospect she would usually find mortifying - as the streets were largely deserted. The city may not have been sleeping, as famously it never did, but it could be described as currently napping, enjoying a festive slumber before roaring back to life as it inevitably would in just a few short hours. In this brief lull the night was heavy around her and she let out a long breath as she rounded the corner onto a different block, unaware until now that she had been holding it in. 

Andy set out with no destination in her mind, fuelled only by a desire to walk, and the fierce need to be alone with her thoughts outside in the fresh, bracing night. As she wound her way down the empty streets, she tried not to remember the miserable expression on Nate’s face as he had silently watched her leave. 

He had been confused at first, watching her pull on her trainers with a cautious half smile, waiting for the moment when she must surely look up and reveal the joke, laughing, pulling him into the embrace that he had been expecting for the last few minutes. It wasn’t until she ripped her coat from the hook, expressionless, that he let the smile fall and lowered his arms to his side, childlike, swallowing hard before quietly asking, ‘Andy…?’. 

She didn’t respond - her voice had disappeared the moment he had asked the question - and she simply stared back at him for a long, tense moment, watching his eyes fruitlessly search her face for an explanation, before the pain in them burned her and she was unable to meet his gaze any longer. Turning on her heel, she had wrenched open the front door and thrown herself out of it, away from Nate, and away from his questions, the crushing feeling of suffocation that had gripped her in the apartment only beginning to abate as she strode purposefully into the freezing night.

He had not been anticipating that response, clearly. 

She let out a shaky laugh, though it was jarring in the quiet and she cut it short, breathing deeply instead. Presumably no one expected that response, she thought soberly, not to a marriage proposal. 

She shook her head as once again his wounded expression swam before her eyes. She was not a cruel person, and the knowledge that Nate would be in pain right now, in pain and alone, made her chest ache. She knew that her reaction would devastate him, had already completely ruined their Christmas together, and she was not immune to the guilt that this realisation brought. Yet the thought of going back to the apartment to confront him, his sad eyes and his confusion, not to mention his enormous expectations of her...somehow that felt much, much worse and she walked faster through the lonely streets, the pristine snow crunching underfoot.

Although she had not consciously followed a route, as so often happened when she walked without paying attention in New York, her feet seemed to find their path irresistibly drawn to the park. She was deep in thought when the bright lights of The Plaza Hotel illuminated her furrowed brow, tight with an introspection that eased only as the twinkling of a decorative tree caught her eye and she looked up, staring around with something like shock upon seeing 5th Avenue Station opposite. 

She must have been walking for at least 40 minutes to have already made it this far, though she could barely remember having done so. She checked her watch, the long hand confirming what she already guessed. 11.49. She had been out for nearly an hour now. 

Exactly 53 minutes ago, her boyfriend of 4 years had asked her to marry him. 

Like something out of an old Christmas film, he had gotten down on one knee with a ring box in one hand and a single white rose in the other, barely holding in a cheerfully self-conscious laugh before asking her with an expectant grin to become his wife. 

Exactly 51 minutes ago, after a blunt and protracted answering silence that seemed to engulf them both, she had gotten smoothly to her feet without a word and swept past him out of the room. 

Exactly 1 minute after that she had walked out on her sweet, caring boyfriend, standing bewildered in his old college sweater and cotton pajama pants, to venture out into the cold white city alone. 

Moving her gaze up she noticed with vague surprise that she had forgotten to bring gloves. Her fingers were an angry shade of red in the blistering air and as her attention focused on them, her senses seemed to rouse. Her hands began to ache, stiff and uncomfortable, but she only shoved them deep into her pockets as she continued towards the park, the pain registering as little more than a mild distraction. It was much busier here, despite the hour, and the sounds of other people and late-night traffic intruded on her solitude, urging her onward to a more private spot.

She would sit by the lake, she decided, as the landscape in front of her began to morph from high-rise buildings into frozen trees, their long shadows swallowing her whole. It would be quieter there, and the untouched snow would lend the scene a lonely filter that suited her mood. 

She just needed somewhere to sit and be alone for a little while. Somewhere to make sense of what had just happened. Somewhere to work out what she could possibly do next. 

She met no one as she pushed further into the park, striding quickly along the winding, lamplit paths, and on arriving at the lake, she felt a bitter satisfaction surveying the desolate emptiness of the spot. Even the sounds of the cars seemed distant here, silenced by the snow and the dark and the barrier of looming trees. 

The view was just as she imagined, beautiful and wintry, yet strangely melancholy. Although perhaps that was just her imagination, she thought dully. On another day she may have looked out and found the scene festive. 

Staring out onto the water, at the lights winking across its surface, Andy pulled the scarf away from her face and let out a long breath, misting the air in front of her. Standing still, she could feel the snow fall directly onto her face and faintly registered the sensation as oddly pleasant. 

It dawned on her that now she had arrived at the lake, she had very little idea of what to do next. 

‘What are you doing, Andy?’ she whispered to herself sadly, folding her arms around her chest and holding her torso tightly, ‘What on earth are you doing?’. 

After a time, she stepped backwards, away from the bank, and sat down heavily on the frozen bench behind the path, frost biting into the backs of her knees as her denim-clad legs made contact with the wood. As with her hands, she registered the pain without concern and did little to prevent the ice seeping up through her jeans onto the skin. It made her feel more awake, bringing her out of the numbness that had descended over her the moment she saw the ring box cradled confidently in Nate’s clenched hand. 

‘Now, I was going to wait until your birthday’, he had begun with a grin, not noticing her immediate change of expression or the temperature in the room, which she had felt suddenly spike uncomfortably, ‘...but, it feels right to do it tonight’.

‘I know you love Christmas’ he’d continued, at which point she’d swallowed audibly and felt her skin start to prickle, ‘and I wanted to make it even more special for you’.

He had taken a deep breath and beamed at her again, still unaware that something was wrong. ‘Andy...Andrea…my love...-’, he had let out an embarrassed laugh at this point and exhaled loudly as though to psych himself up before saying good humouredly, ‘I’m nervous, can you tell?’. 

She didn’t respond and he’d continued - ‘I guess the exact words don’t matter’ - balancing the white rose on his knee to run a shaky hand through his curly hair. Her heartbeat had jumped up to sit in her throat then, its pounding almost choking her as he kept speaking. It had felt so thunderous she could barely believe that he couldn’t hear it too. 

‘I love you, Andy, I always have, and I want you to be my wife’. He had opened the box to reveal a beautiful circle cut opal set in a simple silver band and stared earnestly into her face for a long moment before landing the final blow - ‘Will you marry me?’. 

Sitting on the park bench, Andy placed her head in her hands and let out a groan which quickly became a sob. 

This was the worst thing that could possibly have happened, she thought desperately, as tears spilled from her eyes. And she hadn’t had any idea it was coming. So focused on her own plans that she hadn’t considered his. She had not even imagined it as a possibility. 

Yet it had happened anyway, and it was awful. 

_And it’s all your fault,_ said a nagging voice in the back of her mind.

Her crying stilled for a second as she turned this idea over in her head, examining it with trepidation. 

Was it her fault? Did she really believe that?

 _You could have prevented this,_ the voice persisted, _you could have left as soon as you knew. But you didn’t, and instead you made everything so much worse._

Andy took a steadying breath as she considered this, tears still tracking silently down her pale face. She could have left, that was true. Maybe it wasn’t as easy as just saying it, but she could have if she had tried. 

She had a good job - a great job even -and enough money to find a reasonably nice place by herself if she was willing to move a little further out. Queens, maybe. 

She had family, not particularly close geographically, but family who would help her if she needed them. She had friends who would support her. She knew all that was true. 

But it was never material issues that had stopped her. Not really.

She bit her lip, anxiety blooming in her chest. 

She knew exactly what it was that had been stopping her. Though admitting it to herself proved just as difficult as it ever was, as almost impossible as it had always been, even after all this time. 

She felt a sob rising again but quickly swallowed it down. 

_Stop that,_ she told herself sternly, _this is your fault, you don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself._

She exhaled firmly, clenching her fists tightly upon her knees. 

_This is your fault,_ she told herself again. _This is your fault._

She had never really considered it lying in the past, although she supposed now that was exactly how it seemed. She hadn’t been trying to actively deceive anyone, she reasoned, it had been more an act of self preservation.

Self preservation that tonight had so spectacularly backfired as to leave her dizzy. 

She sat on the frozen bench in the middle of Central Park and watched the snow flurrying around her. There seemed little point to continue lying any longer, especially not to herself, she thought. Not now.

It had been 3 years ago, give or take a few months, that she first remembered feeling the insistent stirrings of unease that, since then, had taken up permanent residence inside her. 3 years since she had known for definite that some indefinable...thing...was absolutely, unavoidably, catastrophically wrong. 

She was sure that if she could recall every detail of her life, this would probably not be the beginning of the trouble but any previous warning signs had been long forgotten, lost to the part of her brain that dutifully repressed any of those feelings that she could not make sense of, did not want to make sense of. The part of her brain that 3 years ago, without any warning, had suddenly shut down, tripping, sputtering, and ultimately failing, bringing with its demise an abrupt sense of chaos that Andy had spent the following 1095 days trying to shake.

She had been with Nate just over a year when it happened and things had been going fine. Not great, not wonderful - certainly not exciting by any stretch of the imagination - but definitely fine. 

They had met during her second week at Northwestern, at a mixer for the student newspaper that she had been hoping to begin writing for and as she had stood alone, unsure, sipping from a polystyrene cup of warm white wine, he had strolled into her life with a huge smile on his handsome face. He introduced himself as studying at the culinary school there and without much provocation, had entertained her all evening with theatrical stories of malfunctioning cooking equipment, misplaced ingredients and the pomposity of many of his fellow students. 

After that night he didn’t so much as glance at another girl on campus. He was spellbound by Andy, hardly believing his luck that less than a month after starting college he had found his perfect person. When he rang his parents just a few days after the mixer, he had laughed with sheer happiness as he told them about her. ‘I have no idea how I got this lucky, mom, I’m telling you, she’s absolutely perfect’.

They had begun dating almost immediately, settling into a routine that was both comfortable and convenient, and luckily, requiring very little effort on Andy’s part. Nate was kind and smart and funny and unashamedly delighted to be her boyfriend, regardless of who they were with, irrelevant of where they were. Just being around her seemed to make him happy.

He had never been perturbed that she didn’t appear to reflect this delight, and his effusive adoration of her was all the fuel their burgeoning relationship had needed. Nate looked at Andy like the sun rose in her eyes, but it had been enough that she allowed him to do this, he didn’t seem to need her to look back at him with the same heartfelt emotion. 

Which was very fortunate, because she did not. 

Though, this was not to say that she didn’t sincerely like Nate. She had liked him from their very first meeting. He made her laugh whenever they saw each other, he genuinely listened when she spoke, and even if she rarely initiated kissing herself, when he did bend his always smiling mouth to hers, his lips were soft and undemanding, his firm, warm body fitting nicely against hers. 

She had no concerns about him at all.

And though a small, insidious part of her whispered that surely love should be more than just the absence of concern, she reminded herself that she had done well to find him - a good, solid, husband material type of boy who loved her unquestioningly - and resolved to make their relationship last. 

Yet only a few weeks after she had decided this, an almost biblical challenge of her conviction arrived with all the subtlety of a thunderclap, embodied within the perfect, and agonising form of one Dr. Helena Porter. 

A political science professor from England, Dr. Porter was a renowned academic, whose fiercely impressive reputation had made her a significant subject of interest within the Northwestern Politics Department. And after a particularly notable talk during a major conference in Berlin, it came to be that she was approached by the college and besieged to bring her tremendous academic talents to Illinois. 

She accepted, and as Andy’s second year of school began, had taken up her position as a visiting lecturer, teaching British politics at the University for one semester only. 

One terrifying, thrilling semester in which Andy began to quite genuinely question if she was losing her mind. 

She had no memory of why she had originally chosen ‘The Politics of Britain: An Introduction’ as an elective, a decision no doubt carefully made after leafing through the course catalogue but long since forgotten. It certainly had little connection to her journalism major, and she had never been especially interested in European politics, but the reasoning seemed unimportant in retrospect, and looking back, she remembered very little of the actual course content anyway.

On her first day she had taken a seat in the middle of the classroom - reasoning that it was not close enough to look embarrassingly eager, but not far back enough to appear uninterested. As the semester wore on however, this logic had been forgotten, replaced with a desire to get as close to Dr. Porter as was physically possible. In the last few lessons Andy had even began arriving early to class, something she hadn’t done since her freshman year of high school, just to make sure she could secure a seat on the front row. 

But on that first day, her decision had been purely practical, a desire to make a good impression that might translate to better grades down the line.

She remembered it with remarkable clarity. 

Not the teaching material of course, although bits and pieces did come back to her occasionally whenever she revisited those startling 60 minutes again in her memory. But every move that Dr. Porter had made, from the moment she strode into the room, her court shoes striking the hardwood floor in a strangely mesmerising staccato, to her elegant departure after the bell rang, sashaying smoothly out of the room before her students had a chance to move, with only a lazy smile over her shoulder and a clipped ‘Thank you, Class’. 

The image of Dr. Porter’s gently swaying hips inside that tight, high-waisted skirt as she walked out of the door had been burned onto Andy’s retina.

Like her mother’s face, or the freckle on her own left hand, it was a visual that she did not have to pause to remember. It was simply there. Unforgettable. She felt that 100 years could go by and still, she could close her eyes and summon the memory of that tight white shirt exposing the dark skin of the woman’s neck and throat, those expensive heels, that beautiful, sleek, black hair cut into a neat bob. 

All without any effort at all. 

She remembered the beating of her pulse when the woman had arrived and first began to speak, outlining the course aims in a cool, detached manner whilst flipping through the module handbook with her long, graceful fingers. Andy’s opinion of the received pronunciation of Southern England had been practically non-existent before Dr. Porter had walked into the classroom, but within minutes she had developed a deep appreciation for the richness of its cadence and the sharpness of its tone. 

Her heart had clenched wildly when the woman had read distractedly through the register and arrived at her name, skating over it carelessly, never realising that in her mouth it had been transformed for Andy, from a mundane word she heard every day to the most implausibly fascinating sound she could imagine.

She must have been around 35, Andy guessed, though she had the confidence of someone who had been considered an expert within her profession for a lifetime. 

Every sentence was delivered with a conviction that bordered on arrogance, each amusing observation accompanied by a deliciously supercilious smile as the class in front of her laughed enthusiastically. This self-assured manner with which she commanded their attention alone would have been intriguing, but coupled with her striking good looks it was intoxicating. 

Dr. Porter had looked around the room periodically, fixing each student individually with her dark eyes as she spoke, and every time her gaze landed on Andy, the girl had held her breath, almost frightened to look back, but completely unable to look away. 

Though she couldn’t have explained why, not in that first lesson anyway, the woman had her pinned in place every time she so much as glanced at her. 

It was baffling. 

Halfway through the lesson, Andy had begun to feel lightheaded and wondered if maybe she was coming down with something and should excuse herself from the class. But then Dr. Porter had sat back on the edge of her desk, crossing her long, stockinged legs lazily and placing a pen thoughtfully between her lips before answering a student’s question. The move had hitched her skirt half an inch up her thigh and inexplicably, this had caused Andy’s cheeks to flame red. 

She had not thought about leaving again. 

As the hour wore on, the feeling of unsteadiness had continued to grow until she could barely believe it was really her body behaving in this alarming way. Her heart had been beating erratically throughout, her throat had gone dry, she had felt much too warm and even vaguely nauseous. It was like looking at this woman and hearing her speak had given Andy the flu. 

She didn’t know how that could have happened, knew logically that it couldn’t happen, but what other explanation was there?

By the time class had finished, Andy felt utterly disarmed.

She had never paid such close attention to another person in her entire life and the effort had left her feeling drained. She needed to get back to her dorm room. 

When the bell rang and Dr. Porter left, she had sat for a long moment before gathering her things back into her bag, her palms slightly damp and her mind racing. She had looked around to see other students leaving, rifling through the module handbook as they chatted to their friends, and she wondered if anyone else had felt the way she did. But though she’d looked for it, none of the other students seemed to have had the same punch drunk expression she was certain that she must be wearing. It just didn’t make sense.

Maybe she really was unwell after all.

Beside her, a boy she had spoken to a few times in a different class, Jay, she thought, had exhaled loudly, smiling at her as though he wanted to share a joke. ‘Jesus Christ’, he had said with a laugh, gesturing after the professor, ‘she was…’, he’d floundered, ‘well, she’s...’, he had tailed off, shaking his head in amusement before finishing redundantly, ‘...cool’. 

Andy had nodded without replying. 

‘Cool’ was barely half of what Dr. Porter was, the word so pale in comparison to the woman it described that it was almost an insult. Yet she couldn’t think of a better, more fitting descriptor, coherent thought seeming to have eluded her as soon as the professor had swept gracefully into the room.

All the way back to her dorm she had reprimanded herself for not being able to remember a single bit of information about the British political system, despite having sat through an hour long lecture on the topic. 

She had stopped only to pick up a gatorade, 3 oranges and a forehead strip thermometer from the campus marketplace. 

Once free of the lesson she had become convinced that in fact it was her immune system that was to blame for the palpitations, the lightheadedness, the clammy hands, and she was annoyed for letting it completely distract her from learning. By the time she had arrived at her room she had felt calmer and less out of control, her heart no longer dancing around in her chest like a trapped bird. 

_You’re fine,_ she had said to herself, _you’re just unwell. You’re fine._

It wasn’t until the middle of that night when Andy had woken up in a cold sweat, a suspiciously warm tingling in the pit of her stomach, that she had realised everything was not fine at all. She had closed her eyes, blinking rapidly in the dark, but the image that had frightened her awake was still there, refusing to disappear. 

Dr. Porter leaning back against her desk with her tight white shirt partially unbuttoned, the firm swell of her breasts just visible underneath a black lace brassiere. Her long legs were crossed inside a form-fitting black skirt, just as they had been in the classroom, although the dream version of the professor also wore a garter belt that was much less professional. A knowing smile was playing across her bewitching mouth and as Andy had stared at her in fascination, those beautiful red lips had parted and she had laughed and laughed, the sound ringing in Andys ears as she had woken with a start

So close to sleep, it had been hard to arm herself with the usual explanations of what a dream like this meant. Stress, working too hard, something she’d seen in a movie…..all of the usual answers she would have deployed without much thought seemed to fall flat in the face of this haunting image that she could not get rid of. 

Her heart had been racing, and as she had cast around for some other way to explain it so she could go back to sleep and pretend it had never happened, she instead came to a stunning realisation that once acknowledged would prove impossible to forget. 

Though she would wake up every morning after this night, and automatically place it firmly put it to the back of her mind for the day, always refusing to interrogate it further, its arrival had lifted the veil on the part of herself that she had spent years hiding in her subconscious. Once she had recognised it, there was no going back, it didn’t seem to matter how hard she tried.

_You’re a lesbian, Andy._

She had been breathless as the thought made impact.

Her usual defences had been weakened by her sleep fogged brain, and she had gasped dramatically before clapping a hand over her mouth to prevent waking her room mate. She had looked around wild eyed to confirm that she had not disturbed the other girl, gripping her jaw hard with shaking fingers as she had tried to regulate her breathing. 

If she had not been so panicked, the theatrics of the situation would have amused her.

But there had been nothing funny about the icy dread that gripped her as the realisation emerged, fully formed into her consciousness. Nothing funny about the overwhelming sense of shame that flooded her, making her shiver with the power of it. Nothing funny at all about the abject fear that had suddenly taken root in her stomach and begun to make a home there. 

_You’re a lesbian, Andy._

_Now, what are you going to do about it?_

\----------------

In the park, Andy remembered that night with a pained wince, though she noted with surprise that the memory did not hit her with the force she was expecting. 

Perhaps she was too numb to fully feel it, she thought tiredly. Maybe she was already too emotional to really notice the sucker punch it traditionally delivered. 

She paused and allowed the words to come into her head without fighting them back like she would usually. 

_Lesbian._

_I’m a lesbian._

_Andy Sachs is a lesbian._

She let out a deep sigh.

The words didn’t prompt the cold sting of anxiety that she expected, that was true, but a vague nausea seemed to have sprung up instead to replace it. 

She supposed it was a nice change. 

Suddenly uncomfortable on the frozen bench, and with a thin shelf of snow beginning to gather neatly on her lap, Andy stood up abruptly. She walked back towards the water’s edge and climbed a small incline bordered with large white dusted rocks, giving her the best view of the icy lake stretching out like black glass in front of her. Her arms wrapped tightly about her torso once more and she frowned at the city skyline that rose behind the dark trees. 

A cigarette would be nice right now, she thought absently, watching her breath mist the air. 

She had not smoked since her first year of college and even then had never been very serious about it, but the writer in her suddenly found the idea appealing. A cigarette seemed such an appropriate prop for times of crisis or despair and as she struggled for something to do, some action to take, a smoke seemed like a comforting, familiar narrative to follow.

Yet just as she was vaguely contemplating the far-fetched possibility of actually going and buying a pack of Marlboro Menthols to bring back to her deserted spot, a flicker of movement across the lake disrupted her reverie and she looked up startled. 

Squinting across the water - she really did need to get her eyes checked - she saw a figure moving slowly through the gently falling snow, coming to a stop on the path opposite where she stood. A fairly slight figure, mainly in shadow and barely distinguishable from the dark tangle of trees that served as a backdrop, but definitely person shaped. 

For a long moment Andy watched her - she felt confident it was a woman, though she was unsure exactly why - waiting to see if she moved on. But she remained standing there, barely moving, as though mirroring the woman watching her. 

At that distance it was difficult to see if she was staring right back at her or simply out at the water and Andy leaned closer, trying to get a better view of this stranger who had boldly walked right into her one woman play. It was Christmas day - no, it must be Boxing day now, she realised without looking at her watch - what could she be doing there?

Without looking down, she made to step over the rock in front of her to get slightly closer, unfolding her arms from around her chest for better balance. 

It suddenly seemed like the most appealing thing to do in the moment, to get a closer look at this woman, though Andy knew that even if she could see her line of vision or find out somehow why she was there, it would make very little difference to her own problems. However meaningless it was, the prospect of hitting pause on her own bleak thoughts for a short time felt like a welcome course of action and it increased her interest in this mysterious stranger significantly.

So she squinted again towards the opposite bank as she moved forward, raising her foot.

In the time it took for Andy to realise that she had misjudged both the size of the rock and its distance from her leg , the tip of her converse had already struck its highest point, propelling her torso forward as she tripped. She let out a shocked ‘Oh!’ as she began to fall, thoughts of the woman opposite disappearing as she desperately sought to find her balance, arms windmilling wildly. As her body lurched she somehow, remarkably, managed to plant her other foot on the icy ground and for a brief moment she was steady again, letting out a shaky laugh as relief flooded her. 

She was just contemplating how theatrical of an ending a crash into the partly frozen Central Park lake would have been to her already dramatic evening, when the ground slipped from under her, the thin soles of her shoes losing their purchase on the slick surface. With surprisingly little noise, Andy was abruptly pitched over the stones and into the water, the thin crack of a fledgling sheet of ice the only sound announcing her fall. 

She did not even have time to yell as she slipped under the surface. 

An awareness of the blinding cold hit her before anything else, and gasping at the pain of it, she swallowed a lungful of the black lake before she could think to clamp her mouth shut. The ice seeped through her clothes immediately, knocking the breath out of her with the freezing, stinging shock of it and rendering her momentarily limp as she tried to make sense of what was happening. 

But as the water closed over her head, she thrashed violently upwards, instinct kicking in as she tried to break through the darkness enveloping her. It was surprisingly difficult to get her head above the surface, her body not working correctly at all in the sudden, biting water, but somehow she managed it and she was afloat, taking short, gasping breaths as her face hit the air.

Though her brain was already beginning to revolt at logical thought - the intense cold almost the only thing she could focus on - she knew that she could only be a metre from the waters edge at most and that surely it could not be difficult for her to pull herself out if only she could just swim a little distance.

The most important thing was not to panic.

Which would be easier if only she could catch her breath for a second. The short, shallow breaths that were all she could take were doing nothing to alleviate the need in her lungs or the fear in her chest and the cold seemed to press ever tighter on her as she tried desperately to keep herself above water. 

_Don’t panic,_ she commanded herself. _Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic-_

Stretching one foot out to reach the lake floor - distantly she seemed to be aware that the water in the lake was not very deep - she tried to thrust herself forwards with the momentum, but her foot flailed hopelessly without making contact and the movement pulled her head under once again. She shut her eyes tightly and tried pushing through the disorienting, aching numbness to stay afloat but her arms would not co-operate and the attempt felt horrifyingly futile.

She was so close. Surely it could not be this difficult to reach the edge.

She thrust her face upwards again and felt her mouth and nose break the surface for a hopeful second - a small chance to splutter, to grasp at breath - but without her arms treading water she couldn’t help but bob under once more, choking on the icy water that began rushing down her throat. She started to sink, panic snatching at her, drenched clothes like weights dragging her down and she realised blankly that she might not be able to fight her way back to the surface for a third time. 

It occurred to her dimly that she might be about to drown. 

_Jesus fucking christ, Andy. What a ridiculous way to die._

Using every last reserve of energy she had - _how was she suddenly so achingly exhausted?_ \- she tried again to claw her way upwards, thoughts of her family reacting to her surely imminent death racing through her head. Her parent’s crying faces, her sister sobbing her name, and Nate’s broken heart all crowding for room until the pressure building in her head reached an unbearable crescendo and her vision seemed to falter, stars bursting faintly behind her eyes. 

The pain in her lungs was horrendous now, worse even than the cold that still immobilised her limbs, and as though her body was operated by someone else, she opened her mouth to breathe in helplessly, inhaling nothing but a relentless surge of water. The sensation was horrifying, though she could do nothing to fight it, and she knew now that she was drowning in earnest. As the water flooded her lungs, some distant recess of her mind registered that she had always imagined drowning to be less painful than this. Peaceful even.

She twisted helplessly in the water as her body grew heavier, her limbs useless with the exertion. 

After a time Andy realised she had begun to sink and she could do nothing to stop her body floating down, registering faint surprise as her feet gently touched the bottom of the lake. Her brain seemed to be working very slowly suddenly and every thought that came to her felt hazy, unwieldy in a fog that was consuming her consciousness. 

She could see nothing, though she knew vaguely that her eyes were open, and the sound of blood in her ears that had been deafening when she first fell began to retreat into the background. Even the pain in her lungs was receding slightly and she felt herself begin to drift irresistibly towards unconsciousness. 

She seemed to remember very distantly that she had been trying to do something just seconds before, a very light nagging at the back of her mind that she should be moving her limbs, trying for something, moving upwards maybe? - but it was too hard to think, she could not grab onto it, the fog descended further and any coherent thoughts were completely lost.

She was halfway towards nothingness when the water above her broke, so smoothly that she did not notice the arms that emerged, plunging downwards and hooking under her coat with surprising strength. She was not roused as they held her tightly, dragging her slowly through the pitch water and towards the surface. And she was only ever so faintly, faintly aware of the dull thud her own body made as it slid gracelessly out of the lake and onto a rough bed of stones and compacted dirt. 

She was pulled further away from the waters edge with deft, quick movements, before being rolled roughly onto the flat terrain of the walking path, her coat unzipped with agile fingers. Moving under the fabric, confident hands pressed hard over her ribcage, starting up a solid rhythm that resonated throughout her chest. 

Her mouth was pulled apart as Andy continued to drift further away from the scene, her mind dim, and she did not feel the cold lips that met hers, or the warm air that began to rush haltingly into her waterlogged lungs. 

Seconds passed at a dreamlike pace, marked only by the consistent beat of firm hands and focused, heavy breathing. A steady tattoo was playing out across her chest, her body being walked through its most rudimentary functions, as Andy floated high above it all. 

It was not until water began speeding back up her oesophagus, streaming out of her open mouth in a sputtering, violent fountain, that Andy came rushing back to the park, to the lake, to the snowy night, to the spiky, hard ground that was digging painfully into her back and to the freezing cold fabric that clung to her suddenly and aggressively shaking body.

Her eyes remained closed as she vomited repeatedly and her throat grew raw with the burning of it long before her stomach was empty of the black lake water. Her whole body seemed to convulse as it came up, over and over and over again. Coaxing hands pulled her partially upright as she continued to retch, solidly supporting her weight until the vomiting gave way to great gasping breaths that shook her entire frame and she fell forwards onto her forearms in the dirt.

She fought to catch her breath for what felt like many, many minutes.

She did not know how much time had passed when finally her senses seemed to return to her, but as her heart rate began to slow she let out a wild sob.

She had very nearly drowned.

It was almost unfathomable, but just moments before she had almost died at the bottom of Central Park Lake. 

“You’re ok. Just breathe” 

The low and gentle voice behind her startled Andy and she gave a small start, awkwardly twisting around to see who was speaking.

Though she had felt the hands on her back and had been distantly aware of someone else’s presence as she regained consciousness, there had been no room in her brain for the logical awareness that an actual person was sat with her. And in her position laying on the path between tall bushes that bordered the lake, the light was poor enough to prevent her seeing much beyond the dark water ahead. It was with genuine surprise that she consciously realised she was not alone. 

In the shadows she could make out the shape of a woman just to her side, though she struggled to see much detail in her silhouette. She could see that she was small, that she seemed to be kneeling on the ground and as her eyes adjusted, she saw that the woman appeared to be dressed in only trousers and a thin shirt. 

As she shifted her weight so she could face the stranger, the woman moved slightly to the side and Andy felt drops of water land on the back of her hand. She registered the sensation on her frozen skin with interest, realising that like herself, the woman was soaking wet. 

With an almost audible connection, it clicked in Andy’s head.

“You saved me”

Her voice was raspy and the ache in her throat came roaring back as she choked out the words. She put a hand to her neck and swallowed, her eyes fixed on the shadowy figure in front of her. The woman she now realised had saved her life. 

“I-”

The woman began to speak but stopped abruptly as a wailing siren cut through the night. 

“Ambulance” she said quietly, more to herself than to Andy, turning her head to look back, before getting to her feet with surprising grace and stepping through the bushes and to the path. 

Andy saw with surprise as she walked gingerly through the snow that her feet were bare. 

The woman disappeared from view as she moved towards the wailing sound, which grew louder every second and seemed to be coming from just beyond the dense trees that lined the path. 

A minute or so passed in which Andy lay shivering, propped forward on one arm as she waited for the woman to return. Her entire body hurt horribly and she could taste an unpleasant, earthy residue that seemed to line the inside of her mouth, mixing sickengly with the sharp tang of bile. 

She felt nauseous and weak and completely overwhelmed. 

Her temperature remained the most urgently awful sensation however, and as her body ached with the cold she tried to imagine the feeling of being warm in her bed in an attempt to soothe herself. The image she conjured did nothing to stop her shaking.

A rustling through the trees and voices growing louder made her realise the sirens were no longer blaring and that people were coming towards her. She caught snippets of conversation as the voices got closer.

“- and how long was she in the water?”

“Two minutes or so”

“Did you perform CPR when you pulled her out? How long was she unconscious?” 

“Yes - she was unconscious for just over a minute”

“And did she fall in or did she jump?”

There was a pause as the returning voice - previously calm and cool and sure - faltered.

“I...well...I’m not sure”

“Ok, tell me again what happened after you called 911”

Though Andy knew the voices were talking about her, she listened to the woman describe pulling her out of the lake with a numb detachment. 

She could barely believe it was her who had been slowly suffocating in the dark water, who had lain not breathing in the snow for over a minute whilst this stranger had calmly, carefully worked to bring her back to life. 

The fact that she had nearly died kept hitting her, again and again, and the shock of it was seeping into her bones, cutting through the adrenaline and compounding the deep bodily fatigue that had overcome her in the water. 

She was suddenly hit with an overwhelming desire to sleep.

2 paramedics appeared above her and though her eyelids were suddenly leaden, she tried to focus on the words they were saying. She was sure they must mean something but there was an uncomfortable throbbing now in her head, the fog was starting to descend once again and focusing seemed like an almost impossible task. 

One of them bent beside her, reaching into his bag and busying himself with something Andy could not see. She looked upwards instead as her eyelids began helplessly closing and saw that behind where he had stood a moment before was the woman who had saved her life. 

She was still speaking in calm but urgent tones to the other paramedic, shivering only slightly in the drenched clothes that clung to her diminutive frame and Andy watched her push a wet forelock of dark silver hair irritatedly out of her eyes before pointing decisively to a spot on the lake with a manicured hand. Andy vaguely wondered what she was saying, but the noises didn’t even seem to register as words to her now and her brain couldn’t work fast enough to imbue them with meaning. She was difficult to age, this small, suddenly fierce woman, with a striking face and impeccable make-up that had somehow remained intact, lending her a glamour that felt jarring in the fraught scene. 

Whilst she was still speaking, the paramedic leant forward to try and put a foil blanket around her shoulders and she dismissed his attempt with an authoritative hand movement, managing somehow to look spectacularly superior even as water dripped from her tangled hair and ruined clothes. 

He began talking to her again but she had turned her head to look back at the lake and as she did so, caught Andy’s gaze, clearly unsteady but aiming straight towards her.

For a lingering moment she looked back, her eyes narrowing into an inscrutable expression. 

Remembering the gentle hands that had roused her as she’d lain dying on the ground, Andy half expected the woman to smile down at her with a kind look, something at least to match the kindness of her earlier heroism. But her expression was almost stony and she surveyed Andy laying unmoving in the snow apparently without emotion. 

Andy was fading fast but could not seem to let her eyelids flicker shut. 

She felt as though she was waiting for something. 

Some acknowledgement from this unreadable, enigmatic creature who had just somehow, miraculously saved her life. Who had plucked her from the icy water with no difficulty at all and stood now, barefoot in the snow and soaked to the skin seemingly unmoved by the spectacle around her. 

She continued to stare and for a second the woman’s expression appeared, almost imperceptibly, on the brink of changing. Of opening up into something less impenetrable.

And then the moment was broken as the paramedic reached out, lightly touching the woman’s arm to get her attention again and causing her head to snap back around towards him, breaking their eye contact. 

On the ground, the scene beginning to blur in front of her, Andy allowed her own eyes finally to close. 

The night around her began to fall away immediately and she was grateful as the welcoming blank nothing of unconsciousness claimed her, along with the pain and the cold and the consuming panic that, first gripping her in the lake, had yet to unfurl itself fully from around her chest.

As she slipped into blackness the last thing she was aware of was a moving image, playing out like an old movie in her head, of a pearlescent haired woman diving gracefully into a pool of deep, murky water, a beautific smile on her face as she extended one long, alabaster arm down into the depths below her, stretching as far as she could, reaching without success to meet Andy's own desperate, grasping fingers.

.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it has taken me 700 years to write this follow up. I also apologize for it being short and not as exciting as it could be. Mistakes all mine. 
> 
> I hope you still like it!

#  Chapter Two 

**July**

Steepling her hands, Miranda lent forward in her chair and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. 

Though she had not spoken - had barely moved, even - around the room, all activity stilled.

Between several beautiful young assistants, pained, nervous glances were exchanged. 

“Where are the accessories from Elie Saab?” 

Her voice was low and steady but dangerously smooth, the force of her displeasure audible in every careful syllable. Her nostrils flared delicately as she spoke. 

“Why have you used the Kritharioti shoes for the Demarchelier shoot, when a pair from the Spring / Summer Fendi collection would have been infinitely more appropriate?”

She raised her perfectly coiffed head with this question but no one responded, most eyes having become glued to the floor below them as soon as the woman’s posture changed. 

As she carried on, a note of discernible distaste crept into her voice.

“And would anyone-”

Reaching across her desk, she picked up a glossy 12 x 17 print between forefinger and thumb, holding it away from her like a used tissue. 

“-anyone at all-”

She turned her hand so that the image of a striking blonde model posing dramatically in a subway station was visible.

“- care to tell me why Lianna Fox was booked for this photo shoot...when I vividly remember expressing a desire to never see her face in my magazine again?”

She looked around the room, before letting the photograph fall gently from her grasp and onto the floor. With the same hand that had dropped it, she clicked her fingers sharply, pointed first at the nearest trembling assistant and then down at the print. 

“Get _that_ out of my office”

The young woman leapt forward to collect the photograph from the floor, nearly tripping in her haste and walked quickly to the door, a look of relief spreading across her features as she made it out of the room. 

It was rare to escape unscathed this early when the Editor’s ire had been roused and she was thankful that she could now go back to her desk with her self esteem still largely unharmed. 

Inside the office, her unlucky colleagues watched her leave with jealous eyes.

Before them, the Editor slowly got to her feet behind her glass desk, surveying the room with palpable disdain. When she spoke again, there was ice in her tone. 

“Get the accessories _today_ . Replace the shoes _immediately_ . And _whoever_ booked Lianna Fox had better learn very, very quickly how to do their job - because these kinds of mistakes are unacceptable.”

She let out an almost imperceptible sigh. 

“That is all.”

A sense of confusion swept silently around the room. 

_Was that it?_

_Surely that couldn’t be it?_

One woman, dressed head to toe in Chanel’s latest offerings, took a halting step forward and boldy - stupidly, Miranda thought - tried to speak. 

She smoothed her skirt as she began to explain and the older woman thought distractedly how revealing it was of a fundamental lack of taste to clothe yourself exclusively in one very expensive, very prominent designer. 

_And it’s always Chanel_ , she mused vaguely. _Why do they always choose Chanel?_

“Miranda, we were under the impression that Lianna had actually been removed from your blackli-”

The Editor lifted her hand wordlessly, cutting her off. 

Without acknowledging the woman’s attempt at defence, Miranda barely looked at her before repeating to the room in a voice hinting at something almost like disinterest, 

_“That is all”_

They dispersed en masse, hurrying to get out of the Editor’s office before she changed her mind and called them back for more, pleasantly buoyant with surprise that they had gotten off so lightly. 

“She must be distracted” reasoned one Junior Photography Assistant to another as they hurried down the hall and back to the studio, “or maybe she’s unwell or something?”. But they didn’t dwell further on her mercy, the reason seeming unimportant, and were simply grateful to have been spared the usual verbal flogging that could be expected by anyone who had the audacity to disappoint the fearsome Dragon Lady. 

Back in her office, only the Art Director had been brave enough to remain in the room. 

“Can I help you, Nigel?”

After dismissing the rest of the staff, Miranda had gone to stand at the window, arms folded, and she did not bother turning to face him as she looked blandly out at the majestic cityscape laid out in front of her. 

“You can” he said, clearing his throat with slight trepidation, “Miranda, I wanted to ask if you were ok?”

She frowned. 

That was not what she had been expecting. 

She looked over her shoulder at the bespectacled man standing uncertainly in his beautifully cut navy suit. 

_Thom Browne, most likely,_ she thought, eyeing the pastel stitching. A little too whimsical for her tastes perhaps, but a nice choice for Nigel.

She narrowed her eyes at him. 

“And why did you want to ask that?”

The response was returned sharply, like a threat, and her expression made it clear that she found this line of questioning deeply inappropriate. 

But Nigel was undeterred and went on,

“Miranda - a group of 8 Junior Assistants who, frankly, should know better, have just presented you with a shoot full of photographs featuring a model that three months ago, I heard you describe as ‘a disgrace to the profession so heinous, she made Kylie Jenner appear almost Naomi Campbellesque’”

He paused to allow her the chance to deny this statement but she did not, choosing to glower instead, so he continued, pointing down the hallway.

“All of them have walked out with their jobs.”

Miranda turned fully away from the window and walked back to her desk, taking a sip of sparkling water before replying calmly. 

“I will be disciplining the person responsible”

Nigel lifted his palms in confusion. 

“But who is responsible? Why didn’t you find out?” 

He stared at her in genuine confusion.

“Who forgot to pick up the accessories from Elie Saab? And don’t even get me started on those disastrous shoes that somehow made it into the proofs because to be honest, Miranda, I haven’t yet processed the reality that someone I share office space with - multiple people even - allowed that farcical choice to go ahead without challenge”

She pursed her lips at the memory but said nothing, simply looking at him with an expression of cold expectancy. 

“The point is, I’m concerned that you don’t seem as interested in these problems as I know you usually would be. On Tuesday, when the Givenchy samples were the wrong shade of green you didn’t even comment. The day before, your lunch was at least 2 and a half minutes late and not one person left your office crying.”

He let out a small, incredulous laugh -“Last week, your second assistant spent an entire morning in gym shoes and I don’t believe you noticed at all, not even when she came sprinting into your office like Allyson Felix with the Starbucks order”

She continued to look at him without responding. 

“Miranda…”

He attempted a smile, but it withered on the vine under the temperature of her stare.

Nigel sighed. 

“Miranda, I have worked with you for over twenty years. I have seen you so focused on an upcoming issue that you have barely eaten and barely slept in order to make everything about it absolutely perfect. I’ve seen you so incandescently furious over the most tiny details - details that anyone else would consider insignificant - that it terrified me”

He paused.

“What I have never seen in all of that time is you not putting absolutely everything into your work”

She tilted her head, eyebrows raised but - sensing it was a warning rather than a signal to stop - he carried on towards his crescendo, choosing his words judiciously.

“In my wildest dreams I could not have imagined Miranda Priestly, the Devil in Prada herself, passing up the chance for a public evisceration like you did today. But it’s like you just don’t have the taste for it. Something is distracting you, something is...off”

He shrugged. 

“There, I’ve said it and I’m sorry that we are having this conversation but it needs saying. I think that something is going on, in your personal life maybe, something is taking your attention, I don’t know what it is, but well...well, it’s stopping you from doing your job” 

“Be careful, Nigel”

Her eyes flashed and he raised his hands defensively.

“Miranda, I am not criticising you” 

Her expression was sceptical.

“You suggest that I am incapable of running this magazine, yet you aren’t criticising me?”

Nigel shook his head quickly.

“No, Miranda, I am saying you are the only person capable of running this magazine. But right now you aren’t yourself and I don’t know if anyone else is going to be honest with you about that”

He opened his palms to her with a deference that she knew was genuine, looking at her earnestly.

“That is all I am saying”

She considered him for a protracted moment, her thumb placed under her chin and her index finger running lightly across her bottom lip thoughtfully. The skin felt ever so slightly rough and she tried to think if she had told Emily to replace the Sensai Lip Treatment that she had been using recently. 

It irritated her that she couldn’t remember.

She made a mental note to tell her to get some more as soon as this - whatever “this” was - with Nigel was finished. 

Suddenly desiring that moment to come sooner rather than later, Miranda cleared her throat abruptly. 

“Nigel”

The Art Director seemed to brace himself for what was surely going to be a fiery response. 

He waited, wincing slightly in anticipation as though her castigation could make impact with a tangible force.

“You can go”

His brow unfurrowed in surprise. 

He was on the verge of asking her to repeat herself - something Miranda famously never did - when she took up her glasses from the desk beside her, placed them elegantly on her nose and turned back to the book of proofs she had been handed not 30 minutes before. 

Nigel opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it, remembering where he was. 

Something might be different at the moment, wrong somehow, but she was still his boss. She was still Miranda Priestly. 

And despite the apparent muzzling of that famous bite, she was still not someone to relax around. 

After a second of indecision, he turned and walked smartly out of the room in silence, unsure how to judge the success of the interaction.

He supposed emerging with his fertility still intact was a positive. 

In the antechamber to the Editor’s office he noticed Emily eyeing him with intensity, her sharp features composed into a serious, slightly wary expression. 

He gave her a small smile of acknowledgement. 

She was probably the only other person at Runway who actually noticed if something was wrong with the Editor, so he could forgive her protectiveness of the woman. 

Not that he understood it necessarily - her job was as demanding as it was thankless - but like him, she had always seemed to take a personal interest in Miranda’s wellbeing. 

As he meandered back to his own office, he wondered if she was in love with her boss. 

She certainly wouldn’t be the first. 

He sighed. 

In the fashion world at least, everyone was a little bit in love with Miranda Priestly. 

\----

“Emily”

In the room Nigel had just left, the redheaded first assistant lifted her head in surprise before getting quickly to her feet. 

At the other desk, the second assistant had also stood up but the British woman waved her hand impatiently, motioning for her to sit back down. 

“She means me, Lucy”

“How do you kn-?”

“-I just know, sit down”

Emily stepped into Miranda’s office and waited in front of her desk for instructions. The woman’s tone had given her a nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach, although she was unsure why. 

Miranda began speaking, as she always did, without looking at her assistant and instead, flicked through the book in front of her.

“Get me more of that Sensai Lip product, one for here and one for the townhouse: the air con in this building is horrendous. Then call Donatella and let her know that I will be attending the benefit during Milan fashion week, but that I have already agreed to be dressed by Valentino so I won’t be wearing anything of hers.”

Miranda waved her hand distractedly here, 

“She can send me something for the gala in December instead if she likes”

Emily nodded, scribbling notes furiously on a small pad.

“Collect my dry cleaning and send it to the place on Madison for pick up tomorrow, _not_ the one on Broadway, and make sure they are aware this time that the Balenciaga is vintage. Change my lunch order to salmon but get it from Le Bernadin - I don’t care how accomplished the new poissonnier is at Marea, I want a fillet of fish, not a piece of modern art. Once you’ve done that, tell Roy that I need to be picked up early tomorrow.”

She raised her eyes to look at her assistant,

“I need to be at my lawyer’s office at 7am.”

If Emily was surprised by this last request then she had the wisdom not to show it and she continued to scribble away as Miranda looked back down at the book, taking a breath and turning a page slowly.

Emily was about to give a short nod and turn away when she added one last item to her to do list, sotto voce as though she did not want it to be overheard. 

“Emily, find out who booked Lianna Fox for the Manhattan photoshoot”

The assistant added one final note to her paper.

“That’s all”

\------

One hour later and Miranda was still staring blankly at the book in front of her, red pen sitting impotently in one hand. 

She had made just three corrections so far. 

Three corrections over fifteen pages. 

She didn’t have time for this dallying, she was acutely aware of that, but she also wasn’t sure how to regain her focus. Apparently her usual method of simply not giving herself an alternative to the task at hand wasn’t working. 

Every time she tried to look at the spread in front of her, to really see the layers and the meaning laid out on the page, Nigel’s words came back to her like an incessant tapping on her shoulder and wrenched her once again away from her task. 

It was infuriating. 

Eventually she put the pen down with an impatient exhalation of air and sat back in her chair.

If her subconscious was going to undermine her in this way then she had little choice but to engage with the thoughts vying for her attention and get it over with. Then she could at least spend the afternoon being productive, even if she had lost some of the morning.

As she lifted one hand to push back her hair from her face, she indulged in a sigh.

She had been....absent, lately. 

She didn’t enjoy admitting that, even within the privacy of her thoughts, but she was a formidable woman and she firmly believed that formidable women had to be brutally honest with themselves. 

It would be a lie to say that she had been on top of her game. 

Her brow furrowed. 

But was she really as ineffective as Nigel had suggested?

She turned the prickly thought over in her mind until its painful edges became bearable enough to really consider. She examined it from all angles.

She had certainly been putting in the same hours, of that she was _absolutely_ confident.  
`  
Roy and his limo had not ceased their daily routine of drawing promptly up to her townhouse every 7am and not returning until long after the sun had set across the city each night. In fact she had not been at the office later than 7.30am a single time in her entire career at the magazine. 

_But that’s not the problem_ , said a nagging voice at the back of her mind. _And you know it._

Remembering back to one of the moments Nigel had referenced during their little chat - when the Givenchy samples arrived in Hunter green, though everyone in the room knew that she had requested Jade - she couldn’t suppress the slight grimace contorting her face as she recalled her own lack of response. 

And when her lunch had arrived late?

She recreated the moment with perfect clarity in her head and saw herself from afar as her trembling second assistant had laid a spring green salad gently on the desk. She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth as she remembered listlessly picking up her fork and beginning to eat without even a word of admonishment. 

She fancied she could even now recall Nigel’s look of horror as he watched her from across the table, though she realised that was probably her imagination. 

Suddenly, with one decisive, fluid movement, she picked up her phone and dialled a number. 

Taking a steadying breath, she waited impatiently for the call to connect.

“Hello?”

“Nigel - It’s Miranda”

On the other end of the line, Nigel tried to gauge her tone. Was she calling him up to yell at him for earlier? It was difficult to tell.

He decided to tread carefully. 

“Yes, I have caller ID. What can I d-?”

Without allowing him to finish, she cut across him with her usual brevity.

“Stephen is divorcing me”

She heard a sharp intake of breath through the phone but Nigel did not respond, so she continued, her voice betraying very little emotion. As stunned as he was, Nigel couldn’t help but admire her for that. 

“I have found this a slightly distracting turn of events” she cleared her throat, “...as you pointed out earlier”

“I’m sorry, Miran-”

Once again, she spoke across him.

“I’m not telling you this to provoke your sympathy, Nigel”

“I know that”

“I am telling you because you were right”

Without conscious thought, her spare hand came to rest across her temple and she leaned into it, eyes low.

“-and I’m telling you because I...I need your help”

Nigel was taken aback.

“You need my help?”

“Yes, Nigel” she said sharply, “don’t make me repeat myself”

He breathed out before responding quietly.

“Sorry, Miranda”

“I need a new PR firm to handle the press once this breaks and I know you have connections at Lyons & Daughters”

Nigel was puzzled.

“Uh...do you need my connections there? I’m sure they would take Miranda Priestly’s account regardless-”

Miranda made an impatient noise.

“No, of course I don’t _need_ your connections, Nigel. What I _need_ is a PR firm that will not leak my personal information. What I _need_ is someone who can organise their taking over my account without raising any media interest. What I _need_ is someone who can get all of this done with the minimum of fuss and without half of New York finding out that Miranda Priestly is so relentlessly unlovable that she is about to be divorced for the third time”

In her frustration, she had raised her voice beyond slightly beyond its usual steady, considered cadence. She took a breath before continuing. 

“They will know eventually of course. But it will be on my terms”

Nigel nodded before realising she couldn’t see him.

“I understand, Miranda”

“Nigel - I need someone who can handle this”

Though she didn’t say the words, “someone I can trust” was a subtext that lay between them and Nigel allowed himself to relax for the first time that day. Somehow he had gotten away with it.

“You can rely on me, Miranda”

In her office, the Editor breathed out slowly, leaning back in her chair.

“I hope so, Nigel. I sincerely hope so”

\----------

34 minutes later and 3 miles away across the city in the small but elegant offices of Lyons & Daughters PR firm, Andrea Sachs was sat at her desk, exhausted. It had been a long day. 

After nearly 10 hours at her desk, she was more than ready to get home, kick off her brand new, desperately uncomfortable Cole Haan heels and relax with a glass - no, a bucket - of wine. 

She had just begun to close the open tabs across her computer screen when an email notification popped up in the corner.

_Andrea,_

_Please come to my office right away._

Sighing slightly but without hesitation - as she knew her manager to be an impatient woman - she got up and walked quickly to the glass panelled office at the end of corridor. She knocked smartly under the plaque that read ‘Regina DeMarco, Director’ and stepped inside after hearing a muffled “Come in”.

The small, dark haired woman was leaning across her file strewn desk as she stepped into the room and looked up at her Junior Assistant with a broad grin.

“Andrea - I have some wonderful news”

Despite her fatigue, Andrea felt a light frisson of excitement at the words. One of the things she loved about working at Lyons & Daughters was Regina’s enthusiasm, which was plentiful and infectious. 

It didn’t hurt that the woman was also fiercely beautiful. 

But that was a thought that Andrea dismissed as quickly as it entered her head, although her cheeks reddened ever so slightly. 

She didn’t have time to go down _that_ rabbithole right now. 

__

Instead she raised her eyebrows interestedly and returned her manager’s smile, “Oh really?”

__

Regina nodded and flicking her long black hair behind her, turned to the drinks cabinet she kept to the side of her desk. 

__

“Whiskey?”

__

Andrea cocked her head in surprise.

__

She had always gotten on well with the Director but this was new. Sharing a drink in her office? She had assumed that was a privilege reserved for far more senior staff. 

__

Swallowing, she had a sudden feeling that she might look back on this moment in the next few weeks as a significant turning point. 

__

Professionally, of course. 

__

“Oh...yes, thank you” 

__

The woman had already begun filling two glasses with a practiced hand and she let out a small, satisfied laugh as she placed the top back in the cut glass decanter.

__

“Andrea - what’s the one account I have always wanted?” 

__

The younger woman considered the question thoughtfully, taking a small, burning sip of the amber liquid she had just been handed. 

__

Was this a test? She wanted to show Regina she had been paying attention.

__

“Well…I know you’ve been hoping to expand the client list beyond New York City, so I guess I would say someone Hollywood based-”

__

“No, no”, the Director cut across her, gesticulating eagerly, “think bigger than that, I’m talking an icon here”

__

She stared across the desk at Andrea, smiling expectantly as she waited for her to guess. 

__

When she didn’t respond after half a second, the woman spoke again, unable to contain herself. 

__

“Come on, Andrea - what is the best account in the City?” 

__

“In the city? Uh…”

__

She felt a creeping embarrassment as she struggled for an answer. Regina would never single her out again if she made a fool of herself here. 

__

“Well, uh...ok...Mayor de Blasio?” 

__

The woman laughed again and shook her head, too giddy to be frustrated by Andrea’s continued wrong answers. She took a deep drink, brought the glass down hard on the desk and patted the other woman’s hand kindly.

__

“Ok, do you want a clue?”

__

Andrea nodded, thankful and took a clumsy swig of her drink to cover her obvious relief.

__

“Yes please”

__

Regina shook her hair out behind her once again and leant back leisurely in her chair, narrowing her brown eyes across the desk thoughtfully. 

__

“So...I can tell you the client is a woman....an icon, like I said…..she works in Lower Manhattan-”

__

“Everyone we represent works in Lower Manhattan”

__

This response gained her a small smile from the woman.

__

“Point taken...ok, to be more specific...just one single block over and she’d be in Tribeca-”

__

Andrea inhaled sharply as she imagined the map of Lower Manhattan in her head, realisation dawning.

__

“Oh! World Trade Centre? So, she’s at Condé Nast then, surely?”

__

“Yes! Condé Nast” Regina gave her a slow clap, inclining her head, “And which Queen rules that kingdom?”

__

Andrea bounced her glass against her bottom lip and screwed her eyes up in frustration.

__

“Oh man, I can’t remember her name”

__

“Andrea! Are you kidding me?”

__

The brunette laughed, confident that Regina was more entertained than displeased at her lack of knowledge and pleasantly warm now the whiskey had begun to work through her system.

__

“I don’t really follow the fashion magazines” 

__

She laughed again at the expression of mock outrage on the Director’s face and put her palms up in a gesture of appeasement.

__

“I do know _of_ her though, I promise. I have definitely read about her”

____

Regina considered her with amusement for a long moment before draining her glass and getting to her feet.

____

“Well, you’ve got til Monday to become an expert”

____

Andrea blinked, confusion furrowing her brow.

____

“Why? What’s happening Monday?”

____

Smoothing her skirt with a satisfied grin, Regina turned to the window and surveyed the ever darkening city in front of her before speaking. 

____

“You and I are going to Condé Nast, Andrea, and we are going to blow every other PR team she could have hired out of the water”

____

“Wait, what?”

____

“Her staff have requested absolute secrecy so we will not be talking about this with anyone else. Only you and I will be aware of this account at first, ok?”

____

Andrea could barely believe what she was hearing. 

____

She had expected at the very most to be asked to help out with some background work on this big new case. She wouldn’t have even been surprised if her entire role was simply to serve as an audience to Regina’s obvious delight. Partnering with the Director on an account was an opportunity she never expected to get this early in her career. Tiredness completely forgotten now, she felt excitement tingling through her. 

____

“I can’t believe it. You want me to help you with this account?”

____

Regina turned back to her. In this light, with her bright eyes and red lips transformed by excitement, her face was almost wolfish. 

____

“Do you think you're ready for this, Andrea? There won’t be any room for mistakes.”

____

Without waiting for the younger woman to respond, she turned back to the window, unable to stay still. Her arms reached around her waist and Andrea watched as she hugged herself tightly. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

____

“Miranda Priestly is perfect, Andrea. We have to be perfect too”

____

The young woman behind her swallowed hard, unsure between excitement and terror which was the strongest emotion battling within her. 

____

“I am absolutely ready, Regina” 

____

She breathed out slowly.

____

“Absolutely”

____


End file.
